


Trashed Notes, Trashed Chances

by Carl_de_carl



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, F/M, Notes, but can read the first chapter as its own thing, christine point of view later, first fic, holy shti i didnt think of it that way but it is, oof folks, suicide note, technically e/c but not yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carl_de_carl/pseuds/Carl_de_carl
Summary: Erik wrote Christine many notes, though she saw only a few, based on the headcanon that erik wrote her notes trying to explain he loved her and was a man, but gave up before he finished them. got the idea from a post  by @not-your-ingenue on tumblr, and tried to add some angst





	Trashed Notes, Trashed Chances

**Author's Note:**

> i just kinda went with whatever part of poto universe would be useful, i am actually dying at the small details not being quite accurate to any specific universe, its agony

_Dear Christine,_

And he scratches that away, too casual, too normal, he is her Angel of Music, and her teacher, he needs a presence of sorts, though what that exactly means, he can decide upon later. He attempts again,

_Christine, I have taught you for a couple-_

And he scratches it out again, this has to woo her, he cannot be so unpoetic! He writes music, for blasts sake, he can use more fitting words than those! and he starts again,

_Christine, it has been my blessed duty to teach you these past few months, and I wish-_

Should he command her, like she expects her Angel to do? How is he even expecting himself to explain to her why her angel is in love with her? Or wishes to even see her? “No, this whole plan is terrible,” he thinks, and scraps the wasted paper away. “Besides, my handwriting is terrible, the last note, the managers couldn't even read it.”

He smiled, thinking of their unexpected reactions, they had believed someone had sent them a bloody letter, as a warning of some kind, and had spent the next couple of days in the same room together, not allowing the other to even go to the bathroom alone. Their reactions alone could have blown his cover, they nearly made him laugh out loud, he had been watching through the wall to try and test whether his handwriting had become better or not. Imagine, who would put in the effort to threaten their lives? They did nothing useful or important, merely took credit for his rather threatening nudgings in the right direction.

He stands, and clears his table, if he does not hurry, he will be late for the start of rehearsals, and though he hates that foul mouthed Carlotta woman, he cannot miss Christine for a moment.

“Foulmouthed,” he thinks. “That fits her in every sense of the word. She believes no one can understand her Italian. She works in a opera house, what type of swamp did that toad walk out of to think no one took Italian to help learn what the lyrics of what some songs mean?” He smiles at that thought, and walks through the doorway, rushing upward, to the light and the music, and to his Christine.

 

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

 

_I’m sure as you have secretly guessed, mon ange, I am no angel, but Erik, your-_

“Why did he pick that name when he did? He tears it up, though his handwriting has certain improved, the managers had presumed it was the previous manager who had written it, rather than a small child.”

The torn up letter, one of the few he had, all shared a common theme. His name. He hates it, yet none fit him better. It is so… simple. Not grand. Not seductive, not what he needs to be. Perhaps he should pick a new name… He needs to be grand for her, he needs to make her believe that he is worth getting to know, despite how he has tricked her for well over a year now. Maybe he could even make her want to be friends; he knows that is the most he can hope for, if she doesn't run off as soon as she finds out.

She is kind, almost too kind to be true, too kind to be approached, too kind to the point he dreads and yet desperately looks forward to any glimpse of her or even a comment from her to other members of the chorus.

_My dear, I saw you were sad at the news of that girl leaving the chorus to be married, even if you did not say anything. She is to marry rich, as you coul-_

And he furiously scratches that letter out, destroying the paper and marking deep grooves into the table. How dare he even think that she could ever be content with anything he ever had, he would be lucky if she stayed in the opera house if he told her, he'd be lucky if she stayed in Paris if she found out. No, he was enough of a stain on her life as an angelic conman. That was enough for him. No more. The closest he would let her know of who he truly was would only ever be those silly stories the chorus members told each other. That is all he was, and that was all he would ever be. He could dream, but that is all he would get.

He brushed away the scraps of the letter, rubbing out the ink in the new grooves, as he had done with the previous scratches and the previous letters, and reverently took out a empty musical sheet. He needed to focus. Achieve what he could. “I truly am an Erik. Eriks,” he thinks, “have limited amounts of worth, not deserving to be seen, but Christines makes them have a point to their existence.” The longer his opera took, the longer he had to wait to hear Christine truly sing, and with that thought, his frustrations and the rest of the world flew away.

 

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

 

How could she! How _dare_ she!!! After all he had given her! He could barely see, for all the tears he couldn’t for the life of him wipe away. He had almost walked straight into his own traps as he had wandered down from the roof. He had killed a man for her and her unearthly voice, and she had repaid him with betrayal! He knows, he knows that Erik had not made her give a promise to him to stay only with him, but he had given her so much, how did she not see that?

“She is too kind, maybe she had not wanted to presume, she knows, for better or for worse, Erik is her Angel, and she is my Angel. For better or for worse. For better or for worse.”

He paces, his vision slowly clearing.

“I can fix this, I can teach her. She does not deserve that little fanciful little gremlin, he practically sucks the beauty out of the air around her, he only loves her because she relies upon him. She wouldn't want to see me, she wouldn't want to see Erik, not now, not after her little sailor had said such things to her.”

His eyes spy his new desk, after he had thrown the old one out, it had given him one too many splinters from the grooves, and could not be fixed. He sat without his normal flare and cape tricks, and took out his quill and ink.

“This will likely go as well as the rest, but it’s therapeutic, at least.” He felt more sure of his actions around Christine since he had started writing these letters, knowing she would never see them.

_Christine, as I have told you in every letter I have written, I love you. I love you more than anything I have ever seen, or experienced. I love you even beyond the thought of leading a normal life, with a normal face. You know I am worth not much beyond my ability to scare what seems to be half of Paris, but I wish I could-_

And here he pauses. What did he want? He knew he could never let her go. He thinks of that little blond, greased rat, and how he had done what he could never, walking up to her, letting her see him without anger and blood, even talking to her and causing one of those small, truly happy smiles she rarely made.

_I wish I could have the chance to repeat the past year or so. I have acted-_

He paused again. He does not regret the actions that brought him to face her, though he does regret her reactions. Curious, how she does not see the benefits of them, though her kind nature would prohibit that. “My little angel,” he smiles. Now, to rid her of that toad permanently, and her matching Italian shadow. His smile widens. He would let them breathe, let them relax, after all, he needed to give Christine time to forget about how she reacted to his latest actions. Though, he should at least try to act they way he would want her to, though. He cannot ruin her life more than he has,

“Oh,” he suddenly panics, “I have ruined it all, she will never sing again, she takes death terribly, you know this and yet you killed that bug, whoever he was. Erik is a fool, a terrible fool who deserves his face! None deserve Erik’s face in their lives, especially Christine! Yet what has he done, but continue to remind her of him.”

He wishes he had truly done things better, tried at least, to copy her beautiful nature. He has fooled even Shahs, he could fool a Christine, the Christine, into seeing worth in him. He throws the letter into the overflowing pile, and ignores the small disturbance his most recent addition has caused. He starts again,

_Christine Daaé, I have acted like a brute of the worst kind. You deserved to have never heard me, never to have seen Erik, he knows best of all, that knowledge. Erik has killed for you, though he knew how you would hate it, but it helped you-_

He calmly drowns the last few words in ink, to the point that the desk itself sports a new spot.

_I wish I could have met you another way. I wish I had never been your Angel, thought it pains me to write this, you did not deserve it. You do not deserve the love I have clearly placed on you because of it_.

He stands again, suddenly. That is wrong, he had a chance, he has a chance, and he will not let that slave of fashion take it from him! He wishes she could see, but would she be who she is if she could? He will hide himself. He cannot think of her again. He tosses the letter into a different pile, not even glancing as it caused a small paper waterfall at his feet, and walks away, arguing with himself, half planning for his next appearance, He has killed for her, she should love him, but she does not want that, but he does so much for her, can’t she see?

 

♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧

 

He listens wearily, to the slowly growing scuffling and yells of the mob, who had probably taken torches from the fires above to light their way through, and hears their garbled song of revenge. Fitting, considering they are a mob of opera workers, and as it falls apart into angry yells, He slowly takes out his quill and ink, thinking over his regrets, and absentmindedly fidgeting with the still warm ring in his hand.

_Christine, the cards have been played. That vicomte should have taken you by now, and I hope he treats you the way you hope he does, enough light and kindness to help forget about me. You have been through hell, due to me, and deserve that, at least. I love you, now, before, I had possessed you, controlled you, and you, so trusting in your Angel, had let me. I am glad this was how your twisted fairy tale had ended. The way I plan to end mine shall no doubt, have some poetic words to it, your vicomte should be able to agree, even if you won’t. I shall give myself up to the crowd, whether they shall share your misguided kindness or prove my previous views correct, we shall see. I love you, though angels, we both are not. I wish I could have loved you before I lost you, my dear. I hope-_

And here he stops. What could he possibly hope for her to have that he had not taken from her?

_I hope you are wrong about humanity, just this once. This, I hope, I can give you properly_.

“This,” he thinks, “is the one letter I wish to have given her. She should know the name at least, of the man who has tormented her for love, then, if she should see this letter...” he thinks, and signs his true name at the bottom, simple, small, in his original handwriting. “The poorly paired signature and elegant letter,” he smiles, “fits quite nicely. Perhaps one of the crowd who might might their way in here shall be kind enough to deliver this to her after they finish tearing me to pieces.” His gruesome smile quickly fades, and he finds the thought of his death, for once in his long life, saddening. He slowly blinks, and lightly sets the letter upon his desk, and walks out the doorway, slowly, yet surely making his way towards the music and the light.

**Author's Note:**

> will write a christine point of view, though when, i cant say for certain, i write best when im so exhausted i cant start to regret writing the thing and overthinking it lol, and schools starting soon, but i swear i will! i swear!!!!!!!!!!


End file.
